doctortay:

Nobody Meant to Sleep Alone

Just a lil’ Stereky sweetness for y’all….[pic source]. Title from Heart’s 

“Sleep Alone.”

To Derek, there’s something extraordinary about Stiles sleeping. 

There’s his beauty, of course, his perfect features neutralized in petulance and amplified by the peaceful glow of repose. There are the lithe curves and muscled lines of his body that Derek knows better than his own, but that nevertheless take his breath away at moments like this. There’s his hand curled toward his face, a now-familiar gesture so sweet it makes Derek’s heart ache.

It’s all that and more that makes Derek stop and stare in awed wonder when he catches Stiles napping, even now, after more than ten years together. But what really stuns him and takes his breath away in moments like this is the world-changing simplicity of it all: Stiles, sleeping, at peace. 

He remembers it like it was yesterday, the first time Stiles slept in his presence. A late night of research in his old loft, surrounded by empty cans of the disgusting energy drinks Stiles swore by and that finally proved no match for his exhaustion, he fell asleep and began to snore into a couch cushion, a dust-ridden leather-bound book still clutched in one hand. Derek knew that Stiles battled insomnia long before the Nogitsune, and that ever since his possession by the demon he had struggled futilely to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. So he had simply pulled the book from his hand and covered him with a blanket and gone to bed, where he didn’t sleep at all, instead staying awake to listen intently to his breathing and the reassuringly strong and steady beat of his heart, his own body tense and ready to jump to action if he should need him. 

Just before dawn, Derek had heard Stiles wake with a confused start, wrestle with the blanket and couch cushions, swear softly, and then leave. 

He had spent the rest of the day trying to catch up on sleep and failing, and then trying to read and failing, and then finally left the loft, shifted to all fours, and ran through the Preserve for hours, trying and failing to forget the intoxicatingly sweet and intimate scent of Stiles, sleeping. 

It was nearly midnight when he returned home, and just after he showered and was about to fall into bed, the scent of Stiles, awake and agitated, reached him from the hallway. He slid open the loft door to find him standing there disheveled, barefoot, wearing soft flannel pajama pants and a threadbare Nirvana t-shirt that had once belonged to his mom. He was clutching a truly pathetic old pillow, and if the look on his face hadn’t been one of sheer irritation and frustration, Derek would have thought him soft, gentle. 

“Don’t say anything, just let me sleep, please?” There was a hint of desperation in his voice, not to mention the half-moon shaped shadows under his eyes, which, somehow even in his exhaustion, still sparkled with that liveliness Derek had come to know and love. So he nodded and stepped aside to let him in.

Stiles was again snoring on the couch in mere minutes, and, smiling to himself, Derek went to bed. Something in him had settled, and he felt such an incredibly deep satisfaction knowing that Stiles felt safe enough to sleep here, and only here. That night, the steady beat of his anchor’s heart lulled him into the most peaceful sleep he’d had in years.

The next morning was much the same as the first, with Stiles waking at dawn and sneaking out without saying anything, as if sleeping on Derek’s couch because he couldn’t sleep in the terror-soaked memories of his own bed was a shameful one night stand he from which he had to skulk away. 

But then, late that night, in the same pajamas and with ever-so-slightly less frustration but more resignation, Stiles appeared again, crumpled pillow in hand, and then again and again, until the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months. 

One morning a couple months into Stiles’ couch sleepovers, the sun came up and Stiles slept on, sprawled on his stomach, face half-buried in his pillow and so goddamn sweet it hurt Derek’s chest. Smiling, he walked silently to the kitchen and to begin his morning routine of coffee and breakfast. He found himself humming as he filled the French press with boiling water, feeling more lighthearted and content than…ever. And when he looked up from the fridge, hands full of eggs and tortillas and cheese, to see sleepy-eyes Stiles rubbing his eyes and mumbling about coffee, Derek finally learned what happiness felt like. 

And then coffee and breakfast in the morning became part of the ritual, and then Stiles started showing up earlier in the evening too, early enough for them to make dinner together and then watch TV or read until they were tired.  It was one of these nights that Derek finally had the courage to invite Stiles to share his bed. He had meant just to sleep…mostly…but the jump and wiggle of his eyebrows and the mischievous curve of his smile revealed that Stiles knew exactly what Derek really meant by the invitation – and he wanted it too. 

Watching Stiles sleep after they had sex for the first time was a revelation. Exhausted now by exertion and multiple orgasms rather than nightmares and anxiety, he slept with peace and calmness, damn near radiating pleasure and happiness. When Derek dared to trace the moles on his cheek with a feather-light fingertip, the corner of his mouth darted up in a quick, sleepy smile. He reached up to clasp Derek’s hand and pulled their entwined fingers close to his chest. 

And now, a decade later, in the home and life they painstakingly built together, when Derek comes across Stiles napping like this, it strikes him like a blow to the chest: the extraordinary gift of his peaceful slumber, the bone-shaking love that he feels and that he knows that Stiles feels too, the awe and honor that fills him at sight of his mate, his anchor, able to so readily give in to sleep because he knows he’s safe, because he’s anchored too.